Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume Two: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Four thrilling novels in one volume!)

by Marion Bryce

  Mr. Sylvester made a final effort. “If you could be convinced,” said he, “that you have got your grasp upon the wrong man, would you still persist in the course upon which you seem determined?”

  With a dexterous sleight-of-hand movement, the man picked up the whirling nickel and laid it flat on the table before him. “A fellow whose whole fortune is represented by a coin like that”—tapping the piece significantly—“is not as easily convinced as a man of your means, perhaps. But if I should be brought to own that I had made a mistake in my man, I should still feel myself justified in proceeding against him, since my very accusation of him seems to be enough to arouse such interest on the part of his friends.”

  “Wretch!” leaped to Mr. Sylvester’s lips, but he did not speak it. “His friends,” declared he, “have most certainly a great interest in his reputation and his happiness; but they never will pay any thing upon coercion to preserve the one or to insure the other.”

  “They won’t!” And for the first time Roger Holt slightly quavered.

  “A man’s honor and happiness are much, and he will struggle long before he will consent to part from them. But a citizen of a great town like this, owes something to his fellows, and submitting to black-mail is but a poor precedent to set. You will have to proceed as you will, Mr. Holt; neither my nephew nor myself have any money to give you.”

  The glare in the man’s eyes was like that of an aroused tiger. “Do you mean to say,” cried he, “that you will not give from your abundance, a paltry thousand dollars to save one of your blood from a suspicion that will never leave him, never leave him to the end of his miserable days?”

  “I mean to say that not one cent will pass from me to you in payment of a silence, which as a gentleman, you ought to feel incumbent upon you to preserve unasked, if only to prove to your fellow-men that you have not entirely lost all the instincts of the caste to which you once belonged. Not that I look for anything so disinterested from you,” he went on. “A man who could enter the home of a respectable gentleman, and under cover of a brotherly regard, lure into degradation and despair, the woman who was at once its ornament and pride, cannot be expected to practice the virtues of ordinary manhood, much less those of a gentleman and a Christian. He is a wretch, who, whatever his breeding or antecedents, is open to nothing but execration and contempt.”

  With an oath and a quick backward spring, Roger Holt cried out, “Who are you, and by what right do you come here to reproach me with a matter dead and buried, by heaven, a dozen years ago?”

  “The right of one who, though a stranger, knows well what you are and what you have done. Colonel Japha himself is dead, but the avenger of his honor yet lives! Roger, where is Jacqueline Japha?”

  The force with which this was uttered, seemed to confound the man. For a moment he stood silent, his eye upon his guest, then a subtle change took place in his expression, he smiled with a slow devilish meaning, and tossing his head with an airy gesture, lightly remarked:

  “You must ask some more constant lover than I. A woman who was charming ten years ago—Bah! what would I be likely to know about her now!”

  “Everything, when that woman is Jacqueline Japha,” cried Mr. Sylvester, advancing upon him with a look that would have shaken most men, but which only made the eye of this one burn more eagerly. “Though you might easily wish to give her the slip, she is not one to forget you. If she is alive, you know where she is; speak then, and let the worth of one good action make what amends it can for a long list of evil ones.”

  “You really want to see the woman, then; enough to pay for it, I mean?”

  “The reward which has been offered for news of the fate or whereabouts of Jacqueline Japha, still stands good,” was Mr. Sylvester’s reply.

  The excited stare with which the man received this announcement, slowly subsided into his former subtle look.

  “Well, well,” said he, “we will see.” The truth was, that he knew no more than the other where this woman was to be found. “If I happen to come across her in any of my wanderings, I shall know where to apply for means to make her welcome. But that is not what at present concerns us. Your nephew is losing ground with every passing minute. In a half-hour more his future will be decided, unless you bid me order my lawyer to delay the forwarding of that communication to Mr. Stuyvesant. In that case—”

  “I believe I have already made it plain to you that I have no intentions of interfering with your action in this matter,” quoth Mr. Sylvester, turning slowly toward the door. “If you are determined to send your statement, it must go, only—” And here he turned upon the bitterly disappointed man with an aspect whose nobility the other was but little calculated to appreciate—“only when you do so, be particular to state that the person whose story you thus forward to a director of the Madison Bank, is not Bertram Sylvester, the cashier, but Edward Sylvester, his uncle, and the bank’s president.”

  And the stately head bowed and the tall form was about to withdraw, when Holt with an excited tremble that affected even his words, advanced and seized Mr. Sylvester by the arm.

  “His uncle!” cried he, “why that is what you—Great heaven!” he exclaimed, falling back with an expression not unmixed with awe, “you are the man and you have denounced yourself!” Then quickly, “Speak again; let me hear your voice.”

  And Mr. Sylvester with a sad smile, repeated in a slow and meaning tone, “It is but one little fuss more!” then as the other cringed, added a dignified, “Good evening, Mr. Holt,” and passed swiftly across the room towards the door.

  What was it that stopped him half-way, and made him look back with such a startled glance at the man he had left behind him? A smell of smoke in the air, the faint yet unmistakable odor of burning wood, as though the house were on fire, or—

  Ha! the man himself has discerned it, is on his feet, is at the window, has seen what? His cry of mingled terror and dismay does not reveal. Mr. Sylvester hastens to his side.

  The sight which met his eyes, did not for the moment seem sufficient to account for the degree of emotion expressed by the other. To be sure, the lofty tenement-house which towered above them from the other side of the narrow yard upon which the window looked, was oozing with smoke, but there were no flames visible, and as yet no special manifestations of alarm on the part of its occupants. But in an instant, even while they stood there, arose the sudden and awful cry of “Fire!” and at the same moment they beheld the roof and casements before them, swarm with pallid faces, as men, women and children rushed to the first outlet that offered escape, only to shrink back in renewed terror from the deadly gulf that yawned beneath them.

  It was horrible, all the more that the fire seem to be somewhere in the basement story, possibly at the foot of the stairs, for none of the poor shrieking wretches before them seemed to make any effort to escape downwards, but rather surged up towards the top of the building, waving their arms as they fled, and filling the dusk with cries that drowned the sound of the coming engines.

  The scene appeared to madden Holt. “My boy! my boy! my boy!” rose from his lips in an agonized shriek; then as Mr Sylvester gave a sudden start, cried out with indescribable anguish, “He is there, my boy, my own little chap! A woman in that house has bewitched him, and when he is not with me, he is always at her side. O God, curses on my head for ever letting him out of my sight! Do you see him, sir? Look for him, I beseech you, he is lame and small; his head would barely reach to the top of the window-sill.”

  “And that was your boy!” cried Mr. Sylvester. And struck by an appeal which in spite of his abhorrence of the man at his side, woke every instinct of fatherhood within him, he searched with his glance the long row of windows before them. But before his eye had travelled half way across the building, he felt the man at his side quiver with sudden agony, and following the direction of his glance, saw a wan, little countenance looking down upon them from a window almost opposite to where they stood.

  “It is my boy!” shrieked t
he man, and in his madness would have leaped from the casement, if Mr. Sylvester had not prevented him.

  “You will not help him so,” cried the latter. “See, he is only a few feet above a bridge that appears to communicate with the roof of the next house. If he could be let down—”

  But the man had already precipitated himself towards the door of the room in which they were. “Tell him not to jump,” he called back. “I am going next door and will reach him in a moment. Tell him to hold on till I come.”

  Mr. Sylvester at once raised his voice. “Don’t jump, little boy Holt. If there is no one there to drop you down, wait for your father. He is going on the bridge and will catch you.”

  The little fellow seemed to hear, for he immediately held out his arms, but if he spoke, his voice was drowned in the frightful hubbub. Meanwhile the smoke thickened around him, and a dull ominous glare broke out from the midst of the building, against which his weazen little face looked pallid as death.

  “His father will be too late,” groaned Mr. Sylvester, feeling himself somehow to blame for the child’s horrible situation; then observing that the other occupants of the building had all disappeared towards the front, realized that whatever fire-escapes may have been provided, were doubtless in that direction, and raising his voice once more, called out across the yard, “Don’t wait any longer, little fellow; follow the rest to the front; you will be burned if you stay there.”

  But the child did not move, only held out his arms in a way to unman the strongest heart; and presently while Mr. Sylvester was asking himself what could be done, he heard his shrill piping tones rising above the hiss of the flames, and listening, caught the words:

  “I cannot get away. She is holding me, Dad. Help your little feller; help me, I’m so afraid of being burnt.” And looking closer, Mr. Sylvester discerned the outlines of a woman’s head and shoulders above the small white face.

  A distinct and positive fear at once seized him. Leaning out, the better to display his own face and figure, he called to that unknown woman to quit her hold and let the child go; but a discordant laugh, rising above the roar of the approaching flames, was his only reply. Sickened with apprehension, he drew back and himself made for the stairs in the wild idea of finding the father. But just then the mad figure of Holt appeared at the door, with frenzy in all his looks.

  “I cannot push through the crowd,” cried he, “I have fought and struggled and shrieked, but it is all of no use. My boy is burning alive and I cannot reach him.” A lurid flame shot at that moment from the building before them, as if in emphasis to his words.

  “He is prisoned there by a woman,” cried Mr. Sylvester, pointing to the figure whose distorted outlines was every moment becoming more and more visible in the increasing glare. “See, she has him tight in her arms and is pressing him against the window-sill “

  The man with a terrible recoil, looked in the direction of his child, saw the little white face with its wild expression of conscious terror, saw the face of her who towered implacably behind it, and shrieked appalled.

  “Jacqueline!” he cried, and put his hands up before his face as if his eyes had fallen upon an avenging spirit.

  “Is that Jacqueline Japha?” asked Mr. Sylvester, dragging down the other’s hands and pointing relentlessly towards the ominous figure in the window before him.

  “Yes, or her ghost,” cried the other, shuddering under a horror that left him little control of his reason.

  “Then your boy is. lost,” murmured Mr. Sylvester, with a vivid remembrance of the words he had overheard. “She will never save her rival’s child, never.”

  The man looked at him with dazed eyes. “She shall save him,” he cried, and stretching far out of the window by which he stood, he pointed to the bridge and called out, “Drop him, Jacqueline, don’t let him burn. He can still reach the next house if he runs. Save my darling, save him.”

  But the woman as if waiting for his voice, only threw back her head, and while a bursting flame flashed up behind her, shrieked mockingly back:

  “Oh I have frightened you up at last, have I? You can see me now, can you? you can call on Jacqueline now? The brat can make you speak, can he? Well, well, call away, I love to hear your voice. It is music to me even in the face of death.”

  “My boy! my boy,” was all he could gasp; “save the child, Jacqueline, only save the child!”

  But the harsh scornful laugh she returned, spoke little of saving. “He is so dear,” she hissed. I love the offspring of my rival so much! the child that has taken the place of my own darling, dead before ever I had seen its innocent eyes. Oh yes, yes, I will save it, save it as my own was saved. When I saw the puny infant in your arms the day you passed me with her, I swore to be its friend, don’t you remember! And I am, so much of a one that I stick by him to the death, don’t you see?” And raising him up in her arms till his whole stunted body was visible, she turned away her brow and seemed to laugh in the face of the flames.

  The father writhed below in his agony. “Forgive,” he cried, “forgive the past and give me back my child. It’s all I have to love; it’s all I’ve ever loved. Be merciful, Jacqueline, be merciful!”

  Her face flashed back upon him, still and white. “And what mercy have you ever shown to me! Fool, idiot, don’t you see I have lived for this hour! To make you feel for once; to make you suffer for once as I have suffered. You love the boy! Roger Holt, I once loved you.”

  And heedless of the rolling volume of smoke that now began to pour towards her, heedless even of the long tongues of hungry flame that were stretched out as if feeling for her from the distance behind, she stood immovable, gazing down upon the casement where he knelt, with an indescribable and awful smile upon her lips.

  The sight was unbearable. With an instinct of despair both men drew back, when suddenly they saw the woman start, unloose her clasp and drop the child out of her arms upon the bridge. A hissing stream of water had fallen upon the flames, and the shock had taken her by surprise. In a moment the father was himself again.

  “Get up, little feller, get up,” he cried, “or if you cannot walk, crawl along the bridge to the next house. I see a fireman there; he will lift you in.”

  But at that moment the flames, till now held under some control, burst from an adjoining window, and caught at the woodwork of the bridge. The father yelled in dismay.

  “Hurry, little feller, hurry!” he cried. “Get over towards the next house before it is too late.”

  But a paralysis seemed to have seized the child; he arose, then stopped, and looking wildly about, shook his head. “I cannot,” he cried, “I cannot.” And the woman laughed, and with a shrug of her empty arms, seemed to throw her taunts into the space before her.

  “Are you a demon?” burst from Mr. Sylvester’s lips in uncontrollable horror. “Don’t you see you can save him if you will? Jump down, then, and carry him across, or your father’s curse will follow you to the world beyond.”

  “Yes, climb down,” cried the fireman, “you are lighter than I. Don’t waste a minute, a second.”

  “It is your own child, Jacqueline, your own child!” came from Holt’s white lips in final desperation. I—I have deceived you; your baby did not die; I wanted to get rid of you and I wanted to save him, so I lied to you. The baby did not die; he lived, and that is he you see lying helpless on the bridge beneath you.”

  Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink more fearfully. “It is false,” she cried; “you are lying now; you want me to save her child, and dare to say it is mine.”

  “As God lives!” he swore, lifting his hat and turning his face to the sky.

  Her whole attitude seemed to cry, “No, no,” to his assertion but slowly as she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her, and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if the earth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and bounded from the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to
regain the refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work while she hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. She did not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass, she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the child she held folded in her arms: then as the flames caught at her floating garments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss upon his brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusing heavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fell before their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyard beneath their feet.

  XLII. PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD.

  “None are so desolate but something dear,

  Dearer than self, possesses or possessed.”

  —BYRON.

  In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the late disaster, a solitary lamp was burning It had been lit in haste and cast but a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sad and silent group that gathered under its rays.

  On a bench by the wall, crouched the bowed and stricken form of Roger Holt, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude expressive of the utmost grief; at his side stood Mr. Sylvester, his tall figure looming sombrely in the dim light; and on the floor at their feet, lay the dead form of the little lame boy.

  But it was not upon their faces, sad and striking as they were, that the eyes of the few men and women scattered in the open door-way, rested most intently. It was upon her, the bruised, bleeding, half-dead mother, who kneeling above the little corpse, gazed down upon it with the immobility of despair, moaning in utter heedlessness of her own condition, “My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!”

  The fixedness with which she eyed the child, though the blood was streaming from her forehead and bathing with a still deeper red her burned and blistered arms, made Mr. Sylvester’s sympathetic heart beat. Turning to the silent figure of Holt, he touched him on the arm and said with a gesture in her direction: